


An 'Off' Moment

by sadistically_sweet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, But it's light whump, Diapers, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sherlock Whump, mentions of spanking, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: Little Sherlock isn't feeling very well, and Greg has an 'off' moment.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 101
Collections: Best Reads KF





	An 'Off' Moment

Gregory was always fantastic with the boys. There had never been a question that he _wouldn’t_ have been; Mycroft had already sussed that out from the very first time he’d seen his little brother interact with the inspector, and nearly every moment thereafter. Even without knowledge of certain...aspects, of Sherlocks’ life, Lestrade had unknowingly filled a paternal sort-of role that even the youngest Holmes brother had not known that he needed filled. 

Then, along came John. And John found his place. 

And, when things took their natural course and Gregory was eventually let inside their small, secret, oft misunderstood dynamic, Mycroft was hardly surprised when he took to the role like a fish takes to water (if you’ll pardon the overused expression). 

Nappy changes did not bother him. Never flinched at the bouts of crying from leaving bottled up rage to stew for days (if not weeks) at a time. Tantrums, clinginess, neediness, late nights and bottle feedings and soothing scraped knees or bumped heads and chasing overgrown toddlers at the park after a little too much ice cream or being firm when getting them to tidy up their own toys--things that would make many sane (and he used that definition loosely) people throw up their hands and shout ‘ _GROW UP!_ ’...Gregory Lestrade took it all in stride. And it was one of the many, many reasons that Mycroft loved him (he did _not_ use that definition loosely). 

...Unfortunately, even the best of the best have their ‘off’ moments. 

***

In his defense, it was an accident. 

One has to remember that there is a direct correlation of how small Sherlocks’ headspace is, to how sensitive he is. During his ‘tiny’ days, just so much as a harsh look his way can leave him in tears. Doubly so when he happens to come down with a low-grade fever, thanks to seasonal allergies (although with everything considered, Mycroft thought they had come out very, very lucky). 

John was handling video appointments in one of the spare rooms. Mycroft, of course, was working in his office. That left Greg to his own devices downstairs...well, ‘his own’ including one very congested and unhappy-about-it Little. 

He was robe-clad and settled in his big, overstuffed, squishy armchair, with its faded seat and threadbare edges (one of the few things he’d brought along when he’d moved in, much to Mycroft’s dismay...although Greg had caught the lanky bastard napping in it almost as much as he did, the disingenuous tit), with Sherlock tucked all nice and cozy at his side in nothing but his nappy and one of their many, many, _many_ soft baby blankets draped over the both of them. Greg had been successful in getting his little muffin to finally take a bottle earlier, in spite of the poor little thing being so snuffly, and now they were being dreadfully, blissfully lazy. 

It was perfect. 

...Until it wasn’t. 

Greg had his chair reclined back as far as it would go, as you do when you’re havin’ a lazy day, and he and the tyke were giving the new ‘Unsolved Mysteries’ series a go. He was enjoying it so far, but the same couldn’t be said for Sherlock...between the lackluster reaction to the show and the steady hand patting the back of his nappy, Greg suspected he might have dozed off. Which would be a small blessing, considering the little guy hadn’t felt well at all.

He tipped his chin down and craned his neck to try and see Sherlock’s face, but there was no way to see through the mass of curls that had grown unruly with the lack of salons open (not to mention that he and Mycroft didn’t have the heart to cut it themselves; it just framed his little face so sweetly!). “You awake, Muff’n’stuff?” he asked, and gently brushed a handful of those curls back from a slightly damp forehead. 

Sherlock, to Gregs’ surprise (and unsurprise, at the same time), tilted his head back and blinked up at Greg with bleary, watery eyes. He snuffled through an equally red, sore-looking nose while he chewed on his dummy.It wasn’t helped by the fact that the way he was laying on Greg’s chest smushed his cheek up on one side, further blocking that nostril. 

Made him look awfully cute though, the poor thing. 

“Little man,” Greg sighed, and kissed the baby’s forehead; “Fightin’ it like always. Have a snooze already...and stop chewing those, you know Mycroft will have you bum for that,” he added, and playfully thumped Sherlock’s nose, as he and Mycroft always did when they caught the little bean chewing on his dummies. It was a new habit and, being such a destructive one, they were keen to nip it in the bud, so to speak. 

...At least, he _meant_ it to be playful. 

Judging by the meaty ‘ **thwack** ’ing sound his middle finger made against Sherlocks’ face as it hit dead center on his left nostril and skidded across his right cheek and making him jerk his head back, eyes wide with shock while Greg could only watch on in horror, fully realizing that that was way, _way_ too hard, much harder than he’d intended...it wasn’t very playful at all. 

“Oh, oh shit, oh shit, oh _no_ , Greg’s sorry, muffin!” Greg rattled off as he watched the baby’s eyes begin to water. He pulled the lever on the chair to lower the footrest so he could sit up with Sherlock still bundled in his arms. God, please just don’t let him _cry_! “Greg is so-so-so-so sorry, you’re okay though! Yes, you’re okay! It was an accident!” He repeated over and over, making a mantra out of it, because as long as he said ‘You’re okay!” enough times then it really would be okay, out of principle. 

But.

_But._

Now that the shock of being thunked in the nose had worn off, Sherlock was realizing that no, he was _not_ okay, and his eyes were continuing to water. He reached up to touch his still aching nose, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches because yes, _yes,_ he was going to cry, because that had really, _really_ hurt and no amount of “You’re okay, muffin!” could change the inevitable. 

Gregs’ heart sank as Sherlock covered his nose with his hands, closed his eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and _howled_. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit... _shit_. God, he was such an asshole. “Oh, muffin,” Greg sighed as he hugged Sherlock to his chest; “Greg’s sorry...that was an accident, love,” he added with a gentle kiss to the little detectives’ temple and started to rock him, little as it did to soothe him. 

“What happened??!?”

Greg closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlocks’ curls. He’d been waiting for that. 

John appeared at the top of the stairs, his forehead creased (more than usual) with worry; “ ‘ey, what happened???!” he called again, leaning over the banister.

“Just a little accident!” Greg called back over Sherlock’s cries. “It’s all right!” He rubbed what he hoped was a comforting hand up and down the little one’s heaving back, hoping that John would take that at face value and let Greg handle it, at least before--

“That is an ‘I’m hurt’-cry,” Mycroft said, appearing next to John. He leaned over as well and frowned down into the sitting room; “What. Happened.”

‘ _Fuck_ .’ “It’s fine!” Greg called again, then lowered his voice to whisper in Sherlocks’ ear. “Muffin, please, _please!_...Greg is so very, very sorry! Please stop crying, sweetheart, before your Daddy comes down and kicks my--!”

“--Before ‘Daddy’ kicks your what?” 

At the sound of his voice, Greg and the baby both turned to find John standing in front of them, his hands parked on his hips and glaring daggers, mostly at Greg (okay, all at Greg). 

Sherlock, with tears still streaking down his cheeks and a bottom lip that poked out further than his brother’s nose when they were having a row, reached for John. “D-da’y-yee,” he stammered in that soft, sweet voice of his that only happens when he’s deep in headspace. 

Johns’ face softened almost instantly, and he reached down and lifted Sherlock into his arms with a short huff. “Poor baby,” he murmured as Sherlock curled around him like a Koala cub and cried into his shoulder. “What happened?”

Of course, he wasn’t expecting an answer...not from the little one, at least. Wasn’t even asking him to start with. 

Mycroft joined them a second later, coming up behind John and leaning down into Sherlock’s line of sight and giving his little brother a soft smile. 

It would have been terribly sweet, Greg thought, the scene playing out in front of him. 

...If he hadn’t been the one to fucking thump the baby in the face, like an utter fucking _moron_. 

Mycroft sighed, and--using that thing he and his brother do that Greg still isn’t entirely convinced isn’t actual mindreading--met Greg’s gaze. “What did you do,” he asked. 

Well, ‘asked’, technically, but he wasn’t making it a question. 

“What makes you think I--?!” Greg began to half-heartedly protest...in vain, he might add, since he was sure he was already caught out. 

“--Because if it wasn’t something directly your fault, you would have told us what happened the first time we asked,” Mycroft interrupted, blinking at him with the most condescending blinks Greg had ever seen. Nevermind that he was bloody-fucking-right. 

Greg glanced up and realized that both Mycroft and John were staring at him, silently waiting...wait, no, make that all three of them; Sherlock had slowly stopped sobbing and was peering at him woefully from where he lay on Johns’ shoulder, his body shuddering every so often from a repressed hiccup. 

_‘Damn.’_ He rubbed his hands over his face, mostly out of habit, but also because he couldn’t take the looks he was getting anymore...especially from the baby. “...It _was_ an accident,” he sighed, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids.

The two other men shared a look before Mycroft rolled his eyes and spoke up. “Gregory Lestrade, if you don’t tell us what hap--”

“I thumped his nose.” There. That was over with. The hardest part. “...A bit harder than I meant to.”

... _Hopefully_ , the hardest part. 

The look on John’s face curled into an offended sneer while Mycrofts' fell into utter disappointment...and he couldn’t decide which reaction was worse. The scales did tip in John’s favor, though, with the “You WOT,” that followed. Mycroft put a hand on his other shoulder to calm him down; “Easy, darling,” he said, then turned back to Greg. 

“...Why did you thump the baby in the face, Gregory.”

Greg moved his hands and sat up; “I didn’t mean to! Not that hard!” he said. “He was chewing his dummy again, like you didn’t want him to, and I was just gonna, y’know, just tap him on the nose, all teasin’ like, and it slippedandhithimharderthanImeanttoandI’msosorrymuffin,” Greg finished in one winded breath, his shoulders slumping as he looked up at everyone pleadingly. 

John no longer looked like he wanted to commit felony homicide, but he still wasn’t exactly thrilled. Greg couldn’t blame him, and he supposed that it helped that the Little one was no longer crying, either….in fact, he looked quite content there (in spite of the tear tracks down his cheeks), perched on his Daddy’s hip while he got his bum patted and rocked. And Mycroft…

Mycroft was _smirking_. The bastard. 

“Poor love,” he cooed down at his brother, and reached out to brush his hair out of his forehead. “Gregory certainly beat you up, didn’t he? Assaulted your little person, the brute! Whatever are we going to do with him?!”

Sherlock sat up and reached for Mycroft, and John gladly passed him over to the elder Holmes. “Here, take ‘im,” John said as Sherlock settled quite nicely on Mycrofts’ hip. “I’m gonna bring the nappy bag in here, then I have to get back to the calls.” He started to leave, but paused and turned back; “And then I’m gonna come back and thump Greg. On the nose,” he said, grinning as he gave Sherlock a tiny peck of a kiss on his nose, making him smile. “ _Maybe_ on the nose.”

“Hm. Well, we’ll discuss it first, before there’s to be any more ‘thumping’,” Mycroft said, looking down at Sherlock as John left the room. Greg sat back and groaned internally--that sounded incredibly ominous. 

Mycroft ignored him in favour of the baby. “Chewing your dummy again, you silly thing,” he playfully admonished, leaning in close to nuzzle Sherlock behind the ear with his nose. “You know better, but Gregory should have been nicer than that, shouldn’t he?”

Sherlock scrunched his shoulder and giggled at the sensation, then reached up and gently grabbed Mycrofts’ nose. 

“Yes, yes...you’re adorable. Everyone already knows,” Mycroft said, his voice nasally, and Greg realized that, in spite of everything, he was smiling. 

Sure, there was a very real possibility of getting his arse smacked any minute now, but...fuck it. He really did love their off-the-rails dynamic. His little family. 

“--should we spank him, hm?”

The smile quickly left Gregs’ face. He was just kidding...he didn’t think that was _actually_ an option for this!

Mycroft had perched on the arm of the couch across from him with the baby on his lap (after freeing his nose), facing him. There was a beat pause (and a quiet sniffle) while Sherlock pondered the idea, then shook his head ‘no’. 

Mycroft feigned surprise; “No?” he asked, an eyebrow going up in shock. “You don’t think so? A lesser sentence, then…yes, yes, I suppose you’re right; it was an accident, after all. Such a magnanimous little thing you are!”

Sherlock, being in his tiny, precious little headspace and therefore easily overwhelmed, gave his brother a shy smile and then his face in the crook of Mycrofts’ neck with a happy wiggle.

Mycroft took the opportunity to catch Gregs’ attention over the mass of dark curls in his face, and winked. 

Ah, so that was it. Greg felt some of the weight in his chest ease off.

“Well, he certainly shouldn’t go unpunished, accident or no. What else would be fitting of such a crime, hm?” Mycroft continued, and rubbed his hand up and down his baby brothers’ bare back. 

Sherlock sat up and slowly turned to peer at Greg over his shoulder, his thumb in his mouth, and contemplated him for a moment. 

Greg, who’d let that same small smile play back across his lips while the baby wasn’t looking, quickly flipped it into a massive pout. He turned his bottom lip down in an impressive display of remorse and batted his eyelashes, while Mycroft pinched his lips together in a way that Greg knew meant he was swallowing back a belly laugh. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and peered at him for a beat longer...then popped his thumb out of his mouth, whirled back around, and began to whisper in his brothers’ ear.

Greg watched as Mycroft leaned in and listened to Sherlock intently, nodding along and clucking his tongue every so often. “My, my...no, of course, I think it’s very fitting, not harsh at all...getting off easy if you ask me...but you’re sure? Terribly sure?...Mm-hmm, I see. Very well.” Mycroft sat up, and both Holmes brothers squared their attention directly on Greg. Mycroft was smiling...smirking, actually...and Sherlock, even with his ruddy, tear-stained cheeks, looked very satisfied. 

...Uh-oh. 

“It seems,” Mycroft drawled; “that Sherlock came up with a suitable punishment all on his own.” 

Greg swallowed thickly. Something about the way Mycroft said ‘punishment’ made his stomach go all wobbly. 

Mycroft continued on. “Tonight, you’re going to-”

“Oh good, I haven’t missed any of the fun stuff, then?” John said, returning with the nappy bag in tow. “You gonna smack him? Y’know, how he did me last month, when I was minding my own business like the angel I am?”

“ ‘Angel’, my arse,” Greg sneered. “You and your smart mouth earned that one honestly!”

Mycroft cleared his throat...loudly. “As I was saying, Greg-”

“-What did you expect me to say when you asked what he had in his mouth?!?” John exclaimed, gesturing to Sherlock. “Was I just supposed to let an opportunity like that go-?!”

“Don’t you have calls to get back to?!?”

“-John Hamish, you interrupt me one more time and you’ll _wish_ you only got smacked,” Mycroft snapped. 

John reluctantly bit back the retort he had lined up (and it was a damn good one, too!) and pressed his lips together in a pout. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the two of them; good Lord, he hated it when they started sniping at each other. It was cute when the boys were Little, with their baby banter, but when either of them were Big...it was just obnoxious. He continued on... _again_. “Gregory, you’re going to bed early tonight. That means no movie,” he added.

“Aw,” Greg pouted...although, an early night in didn’t sound all that bad, truth be told. 

“And no park on Saturday.”

“ _Awww!_ ” he exclaimed again, only louder, and more genuine; now that was no fair! He’d been looking forward to taking the boys to the park for some sunshine and fresh air...not to mention that they weren’t the only ones going a little stir crazy. “C’mon, Myc...what if I just take the spanking instead?!”

“Mm-hmm,” Mycroft hummed, and quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re lucky it’s not my choice...ask the baby,” he replied, and gave Sherlock a bounce on his knee. “He’s the one you assaulted, after all.”

“It was an _accident_. Muffffffiiiiiiiiiin,” Greg pleaded, clasping his hands before him; “Please...don’t you want Greg to take you to the park, huh? Weren’t we even gonna get ice cream?”

He heard John snort, and ignored him. Sure, it was a cheap tactic, but Greg was not a prideful man and he certainly wasn’t above a little bribery if it meant he got to leave the house and go somewhere other than work or the shop. 

Plus...he’d get John back later. “You know Greg would never hurt your poor nose on purpose, lovebug. I think going to bed early with no pudding’s fair’nough, yeah?”

Sherlock mulled this over, and chewed on his fingers until Mycroft gently moved his hand away from his mouth. He tilted his head back and blinked up at his brother. “Hmm?”

“That’s what started this whole mess,” Mycroft said as he tapped his little brothers’ nose. “Now, what do you-”

“That’s victim-blaming.”

Mycroft took a slow, deep breath through his nose...and then stood up and made to hand the baby over to Greg. “I’m going to ‘victim-blame’ your smart arse right out of your pants if you don’t get **back! up! stairs!** ”

...Which was convincing enough for John to remember his sense of self preservation. “Fine, FINE, I’m goin’!” He practically (but not quite) threw the nappy bag at them before making a mad dash for the stairs, just in case Mycroft was serious. “Just bring my child to me when you’re done...IN ONE PIECE!” he called over his shoulder, and then disappeared into the spare office with a slam of the door. 

Mycroft glared after him. “Here,” he said, plopping a very bewildered Sherlock back into an equally bewildered Gregs’ lap without tearing his gaze away from the office door. “Sort this out yourselves while I deal with the other one.” Mycroft straightened his back and, eyes still locked on target in the chilling way that a predator locks onto its prey, began to make his way to the stairs to follow John. “But the early bedtime stands as is!” 

Both Greg and Sherlock watched, dumbfounded at the sudden turn of events, as Mycroft marched upstairs and disappeared over the landing. 

‘ _Well_ ,’ Greg thought. At least the heat had been turned off of him...the majority of it, at least. “...Wonder what ‘e meant by that,” he wondered out loud, mostly to break the tension rather than expecting an actual answer, especially from Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who’d been watching the space where his brother had vanished, now looked at Greg and blinked as if he’d forgotten he was still there. “Wha’d?” he asked, his voice still thick and raspy. 

“The whole ‘victim-blame-you-out-of-your-pants’ thing he said.” Greg ran his hand back through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. He was getting a bit scraggly himself. “I mean, in context I get it, yeah, but it doesn’t make much sense, you kno-” He stopped short when he caught Sherlock’s eye and saw the look of dead-eyed disdain furrowing his little brow. 

Seems he wasn’t quite in the fire anymore, but he was back in the frying pan. Greg started to sigh--and then didn’t. Instead, he gave the back of Sherlocks’ nappy a pat and nudged him to stand up; “C’mon, muffin, let’s change your bum.”

The baby refused to budge, his pout only deepening. “I wan’ Da’yee,” he croaked. 

“Pretty sure Daddy’s busy, love.” If the look on Mycroft’s face as he ascended the stairs was anything to go by, at least.

“I wan’ My’coff.”

“Pretty sure My’coff is the reason Daddy’s busy.” Greg made sure he had both hands secured on Sherlocks’ hips before giving the little one a small bounce and a weak smile. “What, you don’t want Old G’eg?”

Sherlocks’ bottom lip wobbled as he shook his head with the enthusiasm of a wet dog, his curls swishing fast enough that Greg actually felt a breeze coming off of them. He tightened his grip on the little detectives’ slender waist to keep him from toppling onto the floor and starting a whole new fuss all over again. 

Yet, it was cuter than anything ever ought to be, even if it did make Greg a little sad that his muffin was still upset with him. “Aw, why not?” he asked, turning on his own pout and batting his lashes at the baby.

Sherlocks’ cheeks, ruddy as they were already, took on a fresh shade of pink as he frowned his little heart out at Greg. “You pun’ss me in’na fa’se!” he huffed as he crossed his bony arms over his swelled chest in all the indignation he could muster.

The combination of such impotent baby-rage dressed up in sweet curls and a wet nappy was too much, and Greg couldn’t stop the short, sharp laugh that barked out of him, which only made Sherlock more irate. “You y’augh a’d me?! You pun’ss me in’na fa’se an’ you y’augh abou’d i’d?!!” he shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

Greg was shaking the whole chair now, in a fit of uncontrollable laughter...it was just so goddamn _funny!_ The expression on that little face! “I, I d-did not ‘punch you in the f-face’!” he wheezed, unable to catch his breath. “I-it was b-barely a, a _t-tap!_ ”

“I’d s’dill hurted!”

“I, I’m s-sorry, baby, I r-really am, it’s jus-it’s just...!” Greg could hardly finish before dissolving into giggles that left him breathless. God, his belly was starting to hurt. 

“...Sto’b y’aughin’,” Sherlock said as all the righteous wind left his sails, leaving him slumped and wilted. 

Greg forced a cough to counteract the (quite frankly) obnoxious chortling noise that he was still making, and wiped the tears out of his eyes with the heel of his hand. “G-Greg’s s-sorry, muffin-” He stopped to clear his throat and cough again...there, that ought to do it. The last thing he wanted to do was make the baby cry again. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he said again, and meant it. “I really am. I’ve said it a hundred times, and I’ll say it a million more until you believe me.” 

He meant it, of course. He always did. But Sherlock…

Oh, Sherlock. 

Sherlock wouldn’t (couldn’t? That was terribly sad to think) look him in the eye. Greg watched as he chewed on his thumb and fiddled with one of the tapes on his nappy, which would normally earn him a pop on the back of his hand but, y’know, under the circumstances…

...Wait. No, yeah, wait a minute. 

Greg suddenly grinned to himself. Lord, looks like they had another fucking genius in the house. 

“Here,” he said, and offered the baby his hand. “Spank my hand.”

Sherlocks’ head popped up, leaving his thumb hanging off his lip; “Wha’d??” he asked, sounding incredulous at the sudden turn of events. 

“You heard me. Spank my hand.” Greg nodded towards it. “S’the least I deserve for hurting my muffin.”

The little detective chewed his bottom lip, his expression hesitant and a little soft in the way that Greg loved, that he only got to see when the man was in headspace. 

Greg grinned, and playfully (genuinely ‘playful’, this time!!!) whapped the back of Sherlocks’ nappy. “Go on,” he teased, holding his hand right under the babys’ nose, tempting him (and making him go cross-eyed); “Greg says it’s okay, muffin.”

Sherlock looked from Gregs’ hand and met his gaze, then did a double--no, a triple!--take between the two for several seconds until, just as the older man thought they were going to be there all day...a slow, shy smile crept across his face as he reached out and gave the back of Gregs’ hand a soft slap. 

Though he barely felt it ( and he was hardly going to encourage a stronger one), Greg yelped as if he’d been kicked and jerked his hand back. “OUCH! Oh, ouch, ouchie, owwie, ow!” He shook the ‘sting’ out of his hand, even blowing on it, and then pouted at Sherlock; “We even now, muffin?” 

Sherlocks’ smile broadened, making his nose wrinkle, and nodded quickly. 

“Good to hear, y’ah little sadist.” Greg wrapped his arms around the baby and squished him up close, making him squeal, and gave him a big, smacking kiss on the cheek. “Let’s change your bum then, before you start to stink even more than y’ah already do.”

“I do’nah _stin’g!_ ” Sherlock squawked in protest, even as he let Greg scoot him off his lap and onto the floor. “ _You_ stin’g!”

“I smell like roses. Bring me the nappy bag, please.” 

“Ferti’yize rosies!”

“Hardy-har-har. The bag, please.”

Sherlock huffed, but went to retrieve the very fancy Burberry bag that Mycroft had insisted upon having, “if he was going to be wrist deep in wee all day” all the same. “I’m b’ery funn’ee,” he said, dragging it over by the strap. 

“Hilarious,” Greg replied, spreading the blanket from earlier on the floor. “Bum down.”

“Hi’yariou’sh,” the baby parroted as he settled himself in front of Greg, legs splayed. 

Greg smiled. He enjoyed these soft, intimate bonding moments that a nappy change brought them, so he always took his time whenever he could. He was fluffing up one of the boys’ nappies when he glanced down at Sherlock, who was humming to himself while sucking his thumb (naturally) and twirling one of his curls around his finger. 

_God_ , he was so fucking cute. “...You know who loves you, muffin?”

Sherlock switched his gaze from the ceiling back to Greg. “Hm?”

“Go on, hazard a guess,” Greg teased, as he went about changing a very soggy nappy. 

Sherlock blinked at him, and then grinned around his thumb. “Mmm...My’coff!”

“Who else?”

“Uuumm...Da’yee!”

“Bum up! Who else??”

Sherlock popped his thumb from his mouth and clapped; “Na-na!” 

“Aw!” Greg fake-pouted as he doused the little one in clouds of flowery-smelling powder. “Who else, though?!” 

Sherlock grinned like the cat who’d found the cream, and giggled. “...G’eeeegg,” he said, clasping his hands under his chin. 

“ ‘bout time! Yes, Greg loves his cheeky little muffin bunches and bunches!” Greg pressed the tapes snugly into place, and patted Sherlocks’ thigh, signaling that they were done. “Especially a muffin who lets me go to the park.”

“...Maaaay’bee.”

“Wait, what...waaaait, no, you can’t do that!” Greg shook his finger at him. “You already said! No takesies-backsies!”

Sherlock only narrowed his eyes and tapped his finger against his lips. “Wha’d you gi’b me?”

“A right good spanking, that’s what.”

The little devil _smirked_ at him. “Nuh-uuuuuhh,” he said with a mischievous wiggle. 

Well, shit. His bluff having been called (because the cheeky little shit was right; Greg didn’t have it in him to carry that out...not right now, anyway), Greg sighed and sat back on his heels. “What’dya want?” 

“I’she c’eam.”

Greg folded his arms over his chest. “We’ll get ice cream tomorrow. At the _park_.”

“Mmmm...for pi’sha.”

“You want pizza? For dinner, you mean?”

“Y’ussssss!”

“Thank God you’re food motivated. Fine, we’ll have pizza tonight, and ice cream at the park tomorrow. That is, if you’re letting your dear ole’ Uncle Greg go?”

Sherlock beamed and nodded his head excitedly, then reached for Greg. “U’b, u’b now!” he babbled, his fingers grasping at air. 

“You sneaky little biscuit. C’mere…” Greg stood up with a grunt before taking Sherlock under his arms and heaving him up onto his hip. “Love you, muff’n’stuff,” he said, and gave the babe in arms a kiss on the cheek as he carried him towards the kitchen. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms over Gregs’ shoulders, and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “Y’ub’oo.”

“What sort of pizza do you want, sweetheart?”

“Ummm...any’fin’ bu’d pe’bberonies. Swee’dhear’d.”

“No pepperonis? My word, you really must be ill after all.”

“I y’oss my tas’de a’ffer you pun’ss me in the fa’se.”

“I did NOT punch you in the face…!”

  
  


***


End file.
